


The Magnificent Seven: A Star Wars Story

by silverbird6



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Emma's gonna rain fire and brimstone on the Hutts, Especially Bogue, It's a big galaxy, Star Wars - Freeform, Who finally looks like the horrible person he is, With a lot of scumbags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-01 22:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13304307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverbird6/pseuds/silverbird6
Summary: No one cares about the Outer Rim.  The settlers of Rose Creek believe this is a good thing, until a greedy Hutt clan steals their land and slaughter innocents. With no one willing to cross a Hutt, their only hope are the outcasts and the misfits of the galaxy.  Enter the Magnificent Seven.(Or the Star Wars AU no one asked for)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea got stuck in my mind and just wouldn't let go: Chisolm is a bounty hunter, Bogue is essentially a Hutt, and the Old West is basically the Outer Rim. So I wrote a story. If you aren't familiar with the Star Wars Universe, no worries. I try to explain everything needed within the context of the story. However, if I reference something that is confusing, just mention it in the comments and I will provide clarification. 
> 
> Also, at the beginning of each chapter, I will put the location in bold and the date in parentheses. The date is based on Galactic Standard Time (a 5 day week, 7 week month, and essentially 10 month year). All you need to know is the format: Year (BBY). Month #. Week of the Month-Day of the Week. Let me know if that is confusing.
> 
> And I think that's it! Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

_A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…_

 

**The Magnificent Seven: A Star Wars Story**

 

 _Tyranny! As the Empire solidifies its reach_  
_across the galaxy, rebellion begins to stir_  
_among former Republic worlds. On the planet_  
_of Aldaraan, Senator Bail Organa begins to_  
_consolidate support against the Empire._

 _A decade into the Empire’s greedy reign, small_  
_Planets are neglected to crime lords. The desert_  
_moon of Viejo Oeste is at the mercy of the Bogue_  
_Hutt clan, a criminal empire known for its cruelty_  
_and greed. As the people of Rose Creek suffer, they_  
_desperately call for aid from an uncaring galaxy…_

 

 

 

 

 

**Viejo Oeste (9.2.3-Primeday)**

The galaxy was a big place, containing thousands of moons and planets. Each planet contributed were millions of sentient beings who worked and thrived, lived and died. Half the galaxy’s inhabitants chose to live on Core Worlds. These worlds received the latest technology, contained every creature comfort imaginable, and were connected in nearly every way to each other. Others chose to live in the Mid Rim, the Expansion, or the Colonies. These areas boasted thriving economies and successful political structures. The galaxy’s “civilized” populations settled in any of those areas, whose rule changed every generation. For some, it was the Old Republic. For others, the Sith Empires of old were the golden standard. Recently, the Galactic Republic created a Senate of the wealthiest and most successful planets in the galaxy. However, that government fell into obsolescence like its predecessors and the Empire rose from the ashes. In the galaxy, change was a part of life. Everywhere except the Outer Rim. The Outer Rim always remained a region fit only for criminals and their ilk. Oh, there were plenty of settlers, hard working folks looking to make a name for themselves or escape from the institutionalism of the Core. But eventually, they were consumed by the machines that were criminal organizations. The Hutts, the Black Sun, the Pike Syndicate, Zygerrian slavers; every criminal in the galaxy had connections to the Outer Rim. The whole region was lawless, savage, and strange. But settlers continued to pour in, desperate to escape oppressive political structures, economic debts, or social restraints.

On the very edge of the Outer Rim, there was a gas planet west and north of Rattatak. The gas giant was about as useless as a planet could get: uninhabitable, no usable resources, not on any major trade routes. Its moon, however, was at least habitable. Viejo Oeste was a dry and dusty little moon. Its only outpost, Rose Creek, was the same. It had little creature comforts, but its inhabitants took comfort in the knowledge that the land was their own. Sure, they might have to share ‘freshers and receive news only from outdated holonews channels, but their work was honest. They would till the land, set up vaporators, and slowly turn the dust bowl moon of Viejo Oeste into a home. The settlers were diverse, united only by their desire to make something of themselves. In the galactic Empire, advancement was found in loyalty to the Emperor. In military service, political prowess, or intellectual genius too brilliant to be ignored. But on the outskirts of the Outer Rim, the unwanted gathered and thrived. No Empire, no rules but their own. Free to choose the life they wanted to live.

This particular moon had been selected a few years ago, then settlers painstakingly interviewed and chosen. Some went ahead of their families to set up buildings, a ship-pad, and start the vaparators. The outpost contained little more than shanties, the cheap grey steel blending into dry tan sand. A tavern, general store, shops for the tradesmen, uniform housing for everyone. Just the basics, nothing more. The only splurge was a church built of white plank wood. Each settler brought bits and pieces from their home worlds, creating a building filled with the soul of the townspeople.

 

For six months, the settlers toiled. The vaperators brought in their first bounty of moisture. No longer having to import water from off-world, they took to their tilling with new joy and ferocity. Crops had to be planted and tended to before the cool season. Schoolteacher, a Mon-Cala exiled during the Great Purge, set up classes at night for the youngest residents. The Abhean preacher taught the ways of God. Every settler found their place in the little community, bound by the laws they themselves established. However, even far from the reach of the Empire, mentions of democracy and the Republic and the Jedi were only told in bedtime stories, whispered furtively between families.

Nine months after the outpost was settled, an old TL-1200 transport landed 10 clicks from the town. Preacher sent his acolyte Jacob to greet the visitors. Though they didn’t have much to share, anyone hoping to settle away from the Empire would be welcome here. Jacob sent his last transmission from the dune range less than a click from the transport’s landing site. The people were digging in the rock and sand. The transport was carrying mining equipment. He was going to make contact, and would call if the visitors needed anything.

Jacob was never seen again.

 

The next time visitors arrived, it was in a DP20 frigate. The frigate landed by the dune range, surrounded by fighters of every make and class. A tall, gangly alien strode out, flanked by bodyguards. The alien, upwards of seven feet tall with red slimy skin, introduced himself as Bartholomew Bogue, head of the Bogue Hutt clan. He would be claiming the moon in the name of the Hutts and the town would function as his headquarters. The settlers grumbled, but the Hutt tolerated no dissention. Believing the clan would grow bored of the moon quickly, the settlers grudgingly accepted his men and equipment. Maybe this Hutt would bring trade partners for their crops. The settlers were hopeful and naïve.  In their optimism, they forgot one of the principle rules of the galaxy: no dealings with the Hutts ever ended well. 

First, the Hutt clan stayed glued to the mine. Their equipment was loud and created dust storms, but otherwise the settlers continued as they always had. Many speculated what they were drilling for. Some thought they found chromite or feldspar. A few whispered the possibility of a Kyber crystal stash. The reality was so much worse: Bogue was mining for Phrik. A metal so rare it was thought to only reside on one planet in the entire galaxy. No metal was stronger or lighter; phrik battle armor could be sold for millions of credits. Rumor said it was even lightsaber resistant. With that news, the settlers finally saw the truth: the Hutts would not leave until they had extracted every kilo of precious metal from the moon.

Soon, the Hutt’s influence left the mine and overran the town. Mercenaries ate the tavern’s food without paying. Huttese visitors stayed in the settlers’ homes. The town suffered as their land was confiscated, crops pillaged when food transports were late. The carefully toiled and planted land would not yield any crops this year. And so they met in the church, to decide what must be done.

The result was not pleasant.

Schoolteacher was the first to hear the tell-tale sliding of Bogue’s passage. He gathered his boy close to his chest as the church doors were thrown open dramatically, leaving space for Bogue’s relatively thin girth to slide through. His goons, a Gamaorrean and a Cliare, strode in behind him and guarded the exit. The fiend's red skin glowed like embers just cooled as he slithered up to the podium usually reserved only for those worshiping. Bogue demanded all their land at a price that wouldn’t even cover passage off the moon. The settlers protested. Many of them died.

One of those was a Corellian man by the name of Mathew Cullen. After the crowd was banished from the church, he spoke up against the Hutt clan. His wife, a Naboo native by the name of Emma, tried to stop him. They didn’t want any trouble. Nothing good would come of rebellion. But Mathew was a man of principles and pride. This Hutt would steal his family’s chance at survival over his dead body. Bogue was only too happy to oblige.

The church was set ablaze, burning the settler’s dreams to ash. And as blood from the dead and dying stained the dry, desert streets, Emma didn’t wail or cry. Instead she clutched her dead husband in the street as her eyes smoldered with rage. Bogue would burn like the church behind them. She swore that on her life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Korad is a junkyard, Sam always gets his man, and Faraday is having a really bad day.

 

 

**Korad (9.2.3-Zheilday)**

The planet of Korad was a scavenger’s dream.  Orbiting pieces of Old Republic frigates, transport shuttles, and one-man ships blocked passage to most of the planet’s surface.  The planet itself wasn’t any more appealing.  Chemicals and fluids from the ships had escaped and mingled in the atmosphere for a few hundred years, forcing all species to don breathing masks.  Huge craters covered the planet’s surface, pieces of twisted metal and a cesspool of chemicals surprising any scavenger brave enough to clamber down.  Excepting the droid and ship ruins, the planet was completely barren.

 

That didn’t mean the planet was devoid of wealth.  On the contrary, a savvy businessman by the name of Lan Dhuramav built a small outpost on the planet’s surface.  Spacers could dock there, buy parts, enjoy a few sabacc games, then head back out again.  Around Dhuramav’s large compound, a village of scavengers and workers built up.  There wasn’t much, but it was enough to draw a crowd of Outer Rim travelers.  The relative obscurity of the whole setup inevitably attracted those who desired anonymity above all else.   

 

Sam Chisolm was looking for one man in particular: Daniv Borennion, more commonly known as Powder Dan.  Powder Dan was wanted in seven different systems for arson and terrorism.  The planet offering the most for his head (dead or alive) was Kuat.  Apparently, the man set fire to the Empire’s ship yards, blowing up three Star Destroyers.  Sam didn’t deal with the Empire and would have ignored the bounty, but the piece of scum had burnt down a house with 7 children locked in it on Ryloth as well as decimated civilian freighters belonging to the Pike Syndicate.  Sam figured that as long as the man was brought to justice, then his job was done and the dead could rest in peace.  And if that justice came along with a sizable bounty from the Pike Syndicate, well, Sam had no problem with that.  He directed his landspeeder into the town surrounding the compound at a leisurely pace.  His 23 K Orbital Service Shuttle was parked 4 clicks from the town, in case the locals took exception to his business.  The glares and suspicion he received on his way in confirmed the wisdom of his foresight.  Wiping his forehead, he casually took a sip of his water and cursed the planet’s hot red sun.

 

Spacefarers could get a one pallet room with their own ‘fresher and a hot meal in the complex, but Chisolm’s bounty wasn’t there. After parking his speeder, a block away from the building in case bullets flew, he strode purposefully through the door of a dilapidated establishment. The tavern outside the complex befit the planet, grimy and sparsely populated, save some gamblers and day-time drinkers.  The whole structure was held up with spit and a prayer, using pieces of an old Seppie cruiser as walls and a roof.  Guests could rent an Old Republic escape pod for the night, connected to the building through holes in the durasteel.  He wasn’t interested in any of that, however.   He only had eyes for the man standing behind the counter, drying off an old tumbler.  His hair was long enough to hide most of his face, but Chisolm knew this was his man. To the unfocused eye, the man fit in perfectly with the settlement; thin, mean, and scarred.  But there were telltale signs he didn’t belong.  His jacket, which was dusty and worn, was real leather.  A luxury no settler of Korad would ever be able to afford.  The man’s eyes were hyper-focused, sometimes squinting in on a person, then darting to the next patron without any real pattern.  The man had implants in his eyes.  Probably linked to a datapad or piggybacked off the complex’s holonet connection.  Checking for familiar faces, people of importance, or bounty hunters like himself.  He’d better move then.

 

Tension rose in the tavern as Chisolm stepped up to the bar.  He clocked two men to his left who were inching towards their blasters as well as three behind him who were definitely interested.  They wouldn’t be a problem.  His bounty on the other hand, well, the minute he met Chisolm’s eyes, Dan knew he was done.  Sam knew the man was currently looking at a bounty hunter profile, eyes scanning the number of bounties acquired and realizing that he was in deep bantha poodoo.  He smiled, mean and low, deciding to have fun with this child-murdering scum before he exacted justice.  Sam reached slowly towards his pockets and watched with glee as Dan panicked then relaxed when his hand offered credits instead of a gun. 

 

“Shot of busthead”

 

Silence.  A foolish man behind him grasped his blaster rifle, confident the gunslinger couldn’t see him.  Idiot didn’t even think about the mirror behind the bar.  Chisolm thought about ending this charade before it got someone killed, but Dan replied, “Sorry, don’t carry that kind, spacer”.

 

Sam was silent, letting the tension grow and spread.  His eyes bored into Dan’s enhanced ones, before reaching down to pull another credit out of his pocket and slowly reply, “In that case, I’ll have a double”.

 

The room took a quick breath of relief.  A man smoking in the corner started playing cards again, other men downed their drinks.  Powder Dan however smiled the smirk of someone who knows he’s being played.  He reached down for a tumbler and a dusty bottle of moonshine and set them heavily on the counter, eyes never leaving Chisolm’s.  The kriffing scum didn’t even pour the drink for him.  Sam slowly slid a few additional credits, equal to the price of the drink, in front of the bounty. 

 

“What the sith is that for?” Powder Dan asked, momentarily surprised.

 

“Information” Chisolm replied truthfully, watching a small glimmer of hope appear in Powder Dan’s eyes.  Sam grinned, knowing that same hope would soon be replaced by fear.

 

“Lookin’ for a human, big fella, much like yourself.  About your size”.

 

“What’s his name?”  Sure enough, the hope has been crowded out by fear and a glint of danger. 

 

“The name his mama gave him was Daniv Borennion.  But now he goes by the name of Powder Dan.  Killed some settlers on Rishi in cold blood. Downed the Pike Syndicate’s civilian vessels on transit to the Core.  Set fire to the Empire’s shipyard, burnt down a Rylothian home with the children still inside.  Stuck around to hear them scream for mercy before walking away”. 

 

“Ain’t heard of him”.  Yup, definitely danger and anger now. A nod to the armed men behind him. Chisolm needed to wrap this up.

 

“They say he uses a different name.  Got flimsies to prove his false identity, all proper like.  But Dan, you see, has a blaster scar.  Right below his left collarbone”.  Sam relished the criminal’s shudder when he reached out and ghosted his fingers over the long-healed wound.  “Also ran with a partner by the name of Julius Bull, God rest his soul”.

 

“He’s dead?” the man inquired with just a bit too much interest.  Busted.  “How’d he die?”

 

“I whispered in his ear”.  Chisolm leaned forward now, Dan’s curiosity betraying him as he listened to the Epicanthix hymn his mother sang all those years ago, “Bring them in.  From the stars sown with sin.  Bring them in”.

 

A blaster cocked.  Raised.  Sam fired first.  He always did.  The man on his left, then the idiot with the blaster rifle, then the rest of Dan’s friends.  He couldn’t help but spin his own blaster twice before holstering it again.  He ignored the screams of the tavern’s occupants and the cries of the men he had just injured in favor of focusing on Dan.  Dan who, despite all the information at his disposal, was just starting to realize how dangerous Sam Chisolm was.  Unsurprisingly, some idiot behind him thought it was a good idea to finger his gun.  It _was_ a surprise to see the smoking gambler put a stop to the man’s foolish ideas.  Sam’s focus was drawn back to the target’s unsteady voice.

 

“I’ve got a family, mister”.  Dan was pleading now, hands in the air, eyes darting down to his hidden blaster.

 

“They’re better off without you”.  A well-placed bullet and this whole mess was over with.

 

Almost.

 

The species hanging around in the tavern were suddenly in a great hurry to be somewhere else. Sabacc games and drinks abandoned, they scattered every which way before the complex’s police force could arrive.  Or Sam could shoot those he hadn’t already.  It didn’t matter.  What did matter was that one humanoid was awfully hesitant to leave his seat. 

 

“Dan? You dead?”  This human was either stupid or arrogant.  Possibly both.

 

“Pity, I’d jest ordered a drink from ‘im”.  A dangerous glint in this man’s eyes told Chisolm that things would go better for him if he appeased this…Corellian it looked like.  He slid the bottle over in recompense.

 

The man just sat at the gaming table, smoke curling as he slowly puffed on his cigar.  Which itself was interesting.  Most species tended to jump right to deathsticks or spice.  “Money for blood’s a peculiar business” the man drawled, completely ignoring the offering of alcohol.  Sam just smiled with too many teeth, tipped his hat, and stepped out the door towards the police he knew were waiting. 

 

The complex security was some of the best in the business.  But the police, well, they didn’t really care.  These men lived and trained inside the complex, so their only interaction with the outer sections of town were when there was trouble.  And they honestly didn’t mind as long as no one died.  Oops.  Sam stepped outside, hands raised above his head and eyes tilted towards the ground.  They may be sloppy, out of uniform, and out of shape, but they were trigger happy.  He didn’t aim to get shot today.

 

“Easy fellas.  My name’s Sam Chisolm.  I’m a registered bounty hunter in the Core, Inner Core, and Outer Rim regions.  I’m here for a bounty by the name of Daniv Borennion.  You’ll find the only dead man ‘round here is the one matching my particulars”.  With a slow and steady hand, Chisolm grabbed the flimsi stashed in his pocket and held it out to the sheriff.  The portly man stared long and hard at the picture and carefully printed basic.  He glossed over the crimes and the warrant from the Empire and Ryloth, but flinched when he saw the man was also wanted by the Pike Syndicate.  The police cleared out almost instantly after that, not even stopping to check the body matched the picture.  No one gave him any trouble as he strode back into the tavern to collect Dan’s body.  He would need that to get his money from the Syndicate’s Korad contact in the complex. A passing glance told him the man from earlier and his liquor were gone.  Pity.  Sam could have used help with the body.  

 

* * *

 

 

Faraday took a long swig of his moonshine as he traipsed out the back of the tavern. Good riddance. He couldn’t even get a drink and a nice sabacc game anymore without someone shooting up the place.  Though it might have worked out better for him in the end…his cards were shit.  Probably would have lost quite a few credits if not for the timely interruption.  And the free booze…yeah Faraday wasn’t really that mad.  But shooting meant attention and attention always meant trouble for men like Faraday. 

 

Another gulp of his moonshine and he bounded off the durasteel porch.  He had to pick up his ship, _Wild Jack,_ from the complex and then he could be on his way.  Maybe head out to Mos Eisley to gamble pilots out of their hard-earned credits.  Even pick up a smuggling gig.  Honestly, he was just looking forward to the open sky and...

 

A cold blaster jabbed him in the side of the head, one of those idiots from Pii’s spaceport.  Sure enough, his friend was pointing a rifle at him from the other side.

 

“Bet you weren’t expecting to see us again, were you?” the Rodian sneered, none too gently jabbing him in the head again.  Rodians normally had crystal blue eyes, but Bill’s were grey and clouded.  Someone had been hitting the deathsticks hard lately.

 

“Wild Bill, is that you?  You look like shit!” Faraday spat out.  He had to keep them talking.  It was embarrassing enough that these idiots managed to sneak up on him, he wasn’t going to be robbed or lord forbid killed by them.  Really, Faraday needed to stop drinking so much.

 

“ ‘s not Wild Bill anymore, it’s Two-Gun Spacer!” And wow, that was even more nerf-brained than Wild Bill, which shouldn’t have been possible.  Course his mother gave him the name Earl, so the name crisis wasn’t that surprising really.

 

He waited patiently as the brothers jabbered and fussed around him, taking his guns, moonshine, and directing him further away from the tavern.  Faraday was spitting mad, but he decided to bide his time.  He promised himself there would be hell to pay later.  After all, those pieces of bantha dung touched his guns.  

 

He drew the line when the brothers tried to get him in an old Separatist frigate.  “Um no thanks.  If yer gonna rob me, rob me.  If yer gonna kill me, kill me.  But I ain’t goin’ in that mine.  There’s womp rats in there”.  Time to draw them in.  The cards floated effortlessly through his fingers, enthralling Dicky (another awful name, what _was_ their mother thinking) and keeping Bill content for the moment.  Until the card came up wrong and the Rodian lost his patience.

 

Faraday’s eyes glinted dangerously, a warning the Babbington brothers perilously ignored.  Pulling the correct card from his sleeve, he reached around and plucked the small vibroblade from his pants.  Time seemed to freeze, Faraday slowly lowering the card as he simultaneously gutted Dicky with the vibro-shiv.  In an instant, Two Gun Spacer was backing up, hands over his head and the blade to his neck. 

 

“You killed my brother!”

 

“Should I kill you too?” Faraday was tempted.  The scum had chased him across the Outer Rim just because they thought Faraday cheated him out of his credits.  Which of course he didn’t.  Faraday rarely had to cheat anymore to win, especially not against the quality of smugglers at Pii’s spaceport.

 

Opting for the disappearing ear act instead, Faraday gathered his twin blasters from Dicky’s dead body.  The man’s rifle was next to useless, but he ejected the power pack just in case.  

 

“I didn’t want to kill your brother, Earl.  But he touched my guns”.  He paused, looking the Rodian in the eyes, “Remember yer promise.  You won’t come after me.  If you break that, yer gonna regret it”. 

 

With that Faraday strode back towards the complex, only to stop a few meters away when Earl muttered, “We’ll see about that”. 

 

“Excuse me?”

 

The Rodian grinned, blue blood dripping down his mouth.  “That was some awfully good blade work back there, mister.  I bet the Empire would love to hear about it.  Or the Black Sun?”.

 

Damn. This was not how today was supposed to go.  “Oh really?” Faraday questioned, forcing himself to keep a light tone to his voice.  “Why would they care about a drunk gambler like me?”

 

“Because word on the street is one of the Black Sun’s agents went rogue.  Assassin, real nasty piece of work, used primarily vibroblades”. 

 

Faraday breathed a sigh of relief.  Nothing to worry about.  The Black Sun had no interest in him, and he definitely wasn’t any sort of assassin.  Of course, then Earl had to ruin things, adding, “And the Empire is always keeping an eye out for force-sensitives.  No one who isn’t connected to the Force can move that fast”.

 

Earl didn’t even get the dignity of a reply.  The Rodian was dead before the last word left his lips, the vibo-shiv embedded through his neck. Might as well make this look like that assassin fella’s work.  Faraday sighed. This was not how he had envisioned the day going. But he couldn’t risk it.  Rumors from the Outer-Rim eventually made it to the Core.  And the faintest whisper of a force-sensitive would make trouble come running. The Emperor would send his Inquisitors, then his pet Vader if they couldn’t find him. Force-sensitive or not, he wouldn’t be able to visit a civilized settlement ever again.  He would have to live in the unknown regions, where people never returned from.  Which meant they probably didn’t have moonshine out there.  No, it was better to live with the guilt of the dead than live like a dead man. Because one way or another, the Empire was never going to get their hands on him.

 

But the dead bodies put him on a bit of a schedule.  If he hung around, it wouldn’t be long before people put two and two together.  Better to tip off the Black Sun to the dead bodies (because what crazy-ass murderer would turn his own kills in), get _Wild Jack_ , and put this whole mess behind him. 

 

Except after tipping off the Black Sun, he headed to his ship and found people _touching_ it. Trying to get through his automatic locking systems.  Lucky for Faraday, his onboard computer system (AI, it would spitefully argue) was a royal pain and crazy to boot. The menace kept rewriting the access codes, spitting fluids and steam into the…oh and that was a leprechaun (a Lannik to be precise, but Faraday had never really been much for political correctness).  He thought he dreamt that.

 

“Excuse me.  I’m here to gather my ship”.

 

The leprechaun looked up at him, sneer firmly in place.  “You lost it, remember.  In the alley, two nights ago.  A game of chance.  My X-Wing vs. your Starmite freighter.  ‘Your’ ship is mine now”. 

 

“I thought that was a dream” Faraday muttered, making sure to accentuate his drunkenness.  Which at this point wasn’t too difficult given he was very, very drunk.  “I was mistaken.  I would like to _buy_ my ship back.  Only I’m a bit light of funds at the moment”. 

 

The idiot leprechaun went for his blaster immediately, grazing the hilt before wrapping his hand around it.  Faraday quickly followed suit, complaining, “Now why did you have to go and touch your guns?  We were in the middle of a gentlemen’s negotiation”.

 

Before things could get ugly (this time in a highly populated and regulated spaceport), a familiar voice asked, “How much for the ship?”

 

And if it wasn’t the bounty hunter from earlier, minus one dead body. He seemed to have picked up two living ones in the last hour since Faraday had seen him.  A human woman sat on the speeder behind him with a twi'lek man.  They looked nervous and uncomfortable, constantly shifting in their seats, eyes darting to everyone and everything.  So not spacers, bounty hunters, or smugglers than.  Maybe refugees or settlers. None of which explained why the hell they were here and why this bounty hunter was willing to pay for his ship.

 

The leprechaun looked surprised, then spat, “17000 credits for the ship, 100 for docking fees”. 

 

And stars, that imp was milking the situation for all it was worth.  Faraday knew his ship was worth far more than that with all the upgrades, the AI system, and (black market) weapons.  But just looking at the ship from the outside, it was worth 10000 credits.  Max.   But the man (Sam, he remembered) didn’t even blink.  He just looked at Faraday calmly, stated: “I have a job.  Need some men to join”.

 

“What kinda job? Does it have to do with them?”

 

Sam smirked. “They’re our employers”.  

 

Interesting. “Any money in it?”

 

The woman threw a datacard at Faraday.  He took a peek, angling it away from the suddenly interested imp.  The amount was decent for sure.  More than he would have expected them to have, but not enough to raise red flags.  He tossed the datacard back to her, inquiring, “And who might you be?”

 

“Emma Cullen.  This here’s my associate, Teddy Q”. 

 

The twi’lek in question merely tipped his head in acknowledgment.  Faraday thought for a moment on Emma’s Core world accent, her appearance, and her rough voice.  He reckoned he was getting himself into some noble cause, but he did need his ship.  And he was really bored. But there was one more thing…

 

“Is it difficult?”

 

And bless the man, Chisolm just grinned.  “Impossible”. 


End file.
